Chapter 138: Forced Hands

“Ughh,” Leitana groaned as she was dragged out of the van. A bag had been thrown over her head the moment they grabbed her, and it still hadn’t been removed. Her heart pounded, her breath came in short, panicked bursts, and fear clawed at her chest. She stumbled forward and hit the shoulder of someone, jostling against them.

Muffled voices surrounded her, but before she could make sense of them, she was unceremoniously thrown to the hard, damp floor. The side of her head struck with a painful thud, and she groaned, tears springing to her eyes.

“Hey, hey, careful with the way you handle that one,” a voice warned.

The bag was yanked off her head. Leitana blinked against the sudden light, her eyes adjusting just in time to hear her name from familiar voices.

“Leitana—”

Her heart leapt. She looked up and saw her friends. Relief hit her chest like a tidal wave; they were all alive. But then the reality of their situation slammed back. Lafu and Stacy were tied to a pillar.

Marco and Diego were slumped against the far wall, wrists zip-tied behind their backs, ankles bound. Diego’s left eye was already swelling shut, dark purple bruising spreading around it, and a thin line of dried blood streaked from the corner of his mouth.

Jules sat cross-legged a few feet away, hands tied in front, head bowed as if he were trying not to be sick. A fresh bruise bloomed high on his cheekbone, splitting the skin. Anya was the only one still standing—barely. Her arms were wrenched behind her, secured to a rusted vertical pipe. Her lip was split, and one sleeve of her jacket had been torn almost completely off at the shoulder. They all looked like they’d fought—and lost—hard.

For one heartbeat, seeing them alive drowned out everything else. Leitana’s chest loosened just enough to draw a ragged breath.

Then reality crashed back.

They were all in the same grimy room: concrete floor slick with damp and old oil, a single bare bulb swinging overhead, windows boarded so tightly that only slivers of daylight filtered through. The air smelled of mildew, cigarette smoke, and something metallic—maybe blood.

“Leit…” Stacy started, voice cracking.

“Shut the fuck up,” barked one of the men. Built like a linebacker, neck tattoos crawling up toward his jaw, he stepped forward and kicked a loose chunk of concrete toward the group. It skittered across the floor, stopping inches from Leitana’s knee. “All of you. Mouths closed, or I start breaking fingers.”

Leitana ignored him. She twisted toward her friends, fresh pain shooting through her temple. Warm blood trickled down, stinging as it reached her eye. She blinked it away.

“Why yu do sis?” Her voice was hoarse but steady. She stared at the two men nearby—one holding the black hood he’d just yanked off, the other cracking his knuckles like a predator waiting for permission. “Jim paid yu, right? Dis wrong. Yu don’t have to…”

The linebacker laughed, a deep, amused sound. The shorter man with a shaved head and a scar splitting his left eyebrow joined in, echoing off the bare walls.

Before Leitana could respond, a new voice cut through from the shadows near the far doorway.

“I told you boys, this one will try to talk her way out. Always the optimist.”

Jim stepped into the weak circle of light. The charcoal suit he’d worn the night before hung the same, though the tie was loosened, top button undone. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling lazily upward. He looked almost bored.

Lafu jerked hard against the ropes biting into her wrists—but she didn’t care.

“You bastard,” she spat, voice trembling with rage. “You fucking coward. Let us out of here.”

Jim exhaled smoke through his nose, flicking ash onto the floor without looking. “You all decided to play detective. Broke into my late Talent’s apartment. Went digging through things that weren’t yours. Now you’re part of the conversation.”

He crouched in front of Leitana, elbows resting on his knees, cigarette held loosely between two fingers. She could smell the tobacco mixed with faint expensive cologne. She didn’t flinch.

“You look like shit,” he said casually, eyes flicking to the blood on her forehead. “They weren’t supposed to be quite so enthusiastic with the grab. My apologies.”

“Fuck your apologies,” Marco growled from the wall, voice thick and rough, probably from the hit that split his lip. “You think kidnapping us makes you safe? Ravial’s not just gonna let this slide.”

Jim scratched under his jaw and smiled. “Ravial is not why we’re here.” He straightened slowly, taking another drag. “He’s been asking questions, sure, but I knew he wasn’t going anywhere with that. I’m not the only corrupt one in that agency. You’d be shocked at how many there are.” He snickered.

“You should have stayed out of it, Leitana. All of you should have. But you didn’t. So here we are.”

Leitana looked up at him, voice low but trembling. “So… yu kill Celeste?”

His jaw ticked. “How many fucking times do they have to say it for it to get into your head? I didn’t kill that bitch. She overdosed… then threw herself out the window.”

“Liar,” Lafu snarled.

Jim turned to her, snorting. “Liar?” He shook his head slowly. “Okay, since you all are going to die anyway, no point hiding it. This is what you came for.”

His hand dipped into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. When he pulled it out, he held a small black USB drive. He turned it over once between his fingers, almost thoughtfully, then glanced at the linebacker.

“Get my laptop from the car.”

The big man nodded once and disappeared. Silence returned to the room, broken only by the hum of the single bulb and the occasional drip of water somewhere in the dark. Leitana’s head throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Sticky blood pulled at her skin every time she blinked.

A minute later, the man returned with a black laptop tucked under one thick arm. He set it on the metal table in the corner with more care than he’d shown any of them, powered it on, and the screen cast a cold blue-white glow over Jim’s face.

Jim strolled over slowly, inserted the USB, clicked a few times. The speakers gave a soft chime. He dragged the table closer so the screen faced the group, then stepped back, folding his arms.

“Since you’re all so curious,” he said, “and none of you are walking out of here anyway… might as well see what you died for.”

Grainy black-and-white footage filled the screen. Timestamp: 01:17 AM—the night Celeste died. The camera was high and fixed, probably hidden in a smoke detector or ceiling fixture. At first, no sound. Only images.

Celeste paced back and forth, barefoot, wearing an oversized T-shirt. Her hair was wild; she ran her hands through it, tugging hard, clearly arguing on the phone.

A rapid knock rattled the door. Celeste froze, then moved toward it, slow, cautious. The door opened.

Jim stepped in. Even in low resolution, he looked the same as he did now. He said something; Celeste shook her head, backing away, silent argument on her lips. Jim followed, closing the door behind him.

The argument escalated. Hands gestured wildly. Faces pressed close. Then Jim’s arm flashed across her cheek. Celeste stumbled onto one knee, hand to her face, eyes wide with shock.

He snatched her phone, pocketed it, and hauled her toward the couch. She was crying silently, body shaking. He forced her into the seat, one hand gripping her shoulder.

Two older men appeared in the doorway. Leitana sucked in a breath. She knew those faces—they’d been at the masquerade: Victor Lang and Greg.

Two more bulky figures moved like professionals behind them, grabbed Celeste under the arms, and dragged her toward the bedroom hallway. She kicked weakly; her bare feet scraped the floor. The two older men followed silently. The bedroom door closed behind them.

The footage ran in fast-forward. Hours ticked by. The living room stayed empty.

Then, 04:43 AM. Jim reappeared alone, walked to the bedroom, disappeared for three minutes, then returned, adjusting his cuffs, face blank. He left without looking back. The camera stayed on the empty room.

Finally, movement.

Celeste staggered out of the bedroom hallway—naked, bruised, dark marks across her ribs, thighs, and throat. One eye nearly swollen shut, blood on her lip. Every step seemed to cost her something vital. She didn’t look at the camera. She didn’t look anywhere. She shuffled to the window, climbed onto the sill, glanced back at her apartment… and jumped.

The frame froze on empty air.

Silence swallowed the room.

Leitana’s vision blurred. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. A sob tore out of her, raw and ragged, her hands pressed to her mouth as though she could hold it in—but the sound escaped anyway.

A few feet away, something shifted in the weak light.

Leitana looked up.

Celeste stood there. Not on the screen. Not a memory. Here. Pale, barefoot, hair tangled, eyes huge and glassy. No one else noticed.

Leitana’s breath hitched. Lafu’s head jerked up at the same moment; fresh tears streaked her face.

“You monster,” Lafu whispered, voice breaking. “You killed her. She trusted you. She loved you. You piece of shit.”

Jim didn’t blink. He closed the laptop with a soft click.

“She became a liability,” he said quietly. “Stopped doing what she was told, whining and wanting to end it all. I have a rule: if you start something, finish it.” He shrugged, almost casually. “Tragic, but life moves on.”

He turned to Leitana. “But you… you just kept digging. Forced my hand.”

Then he nodded toward the linebacker.

“Get the gun.”